


You

by ObsidianPen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25533406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianPen/pseuds/ObsidianPen
Summary: Hello... Who are you?Based on your clothing, your posture, and your overall demeanor… not someone who belongs here. That much is obvious.In your defense, not many people do belong here. There is a reason Mr. Burke sends me out to sell or acquire precious artifacts. This is a dark store in a dark part of town; we don’t exactly get a lot of street traffic.So… what brings you here?Your robes are dark and nondescript, but your black hair is so wild I can’t help but think it’s that way on purpose. And your bag, is that mokeskin? That’s not cheap. Either you have money or you have generous friends. Your glasses look new too; they are black-rimmed and gleaming, leaving me to believe that they have been enchanted in some way. To repel moisture and stay clear, I imagine, or perhaps to not break. Maybe you like to run about in the rain. Maybe you’re clumsy.Maybe you just like a little danger.Okay… I bite.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 77
Kudos: 660





	1. Cheat

Hello... Who are you?

Based on your clothing, your posture, and your overall demeanor… not someone who belongs here. That much is obvious. 

In your defense, not many people _do_ belong here. There is a reason Mr. Burke sends me out to sell or acquire precious artifacts. This is a dark store in a dark part of town; we don’t exactly get a lot of street traffic.

So… what brings you here?

Your robes are dark and nondescript, but your black hair is so wild I can’t help but think it’s that way on purpose. And your bag, is that mokeskin? That’s not cheap. Either you have money or you have generous friends. Your glasses look new too; they are black-rimmed and gleaming, leaving me to believe that they have been enchanted in some way. To repel moisture and stay clear, I imagine, or perhaps to not break. Maybe you like to run about in the rain. Maybe you’re clumsy.

Maybe you just like a little danger.

Okay… I bite.

What are you looking for in a shop like Borgin and Burkes?

You search the shelves, but your eyes are narrowed and there is the smallest crease between your brows. It's clear that you don’t know what most of our enchanted wares are, and that bothers you—but you needn’t worry too much. We keep the most dangerous items in the basement, away from such curious, prying eyes. And _hands_ , I see. My lips twitch when I catch you reaching out to graze the metal surface of an ancient teapot—Mr. Burke claims that it once belonged to Elladora Ketteridge, though I can tell he is lying—but it’s only magical enchantment, as far as we can tell, is to consistently boil water to the perfect degree for tea, and to keep the water at that temperature long after it's been poured. Nothing harmful there except an ungodly price tag and the danger of being duped into thinking you own a part of wizarding history.

Yes, we keep the truly dangerous items away from the storefront… and we do so specifically for people like you, who touch before thinking. But you shouldn’t feel bad for being curious—even if it is rather reckless, considering where you are—or for not knowing what you’re looking at. Not knowing is the nature of these things.

Cursed objects don’t come with a warning label.

You nearly stumble when you miss the one other occupant in the store, caught up in your searching as you are. I can’t blame you for not seeing him. He’s a regular—‘Joe’, he calls himself, though we know that is not his name—and he is an expert at going unnoticed… among other things.

“Sorry,” you mumble, then move on. Joe ignores you.

But you seem more than apologetic. You look… embarrassed. Your face flares red and your stature has wilted. You’re ashamed. Is it because you feel you shouldn’t have been so ignorant as to have bumped right into someone? Or is there something more at play?

You turn the corner, and in doing so you face me. It was only a matter of time. I am clearly an employee of this shop, as I have been organizing the fangs from magical creatures (which we claim were not illegally obtained) since you’ve walked in. You scratch the back of your head sheepishly and say your first words to me.

“Hello… do you work here?”

Now I can clearly see your eyes. They’re green, extremely bright green. I am reminded of flashes of deadly magic. Of power.

I _want_ it.

“Guilty,” I say. You grin. “Can I help you find something?”

“I hope so,” you say. “I’m looking for… well, I’m looking for something kind of… odd.”

Everything about you is awkward right now. The way your eyes dart from to the ground and back to me again; the way your hand goes from your neck to your hair, where you try—subconsciously, it seems—to flatten it. I give you my most charming smile. “Most people who brave coming into Borgin and Burke’s are,” I say. “What did you have in mind?”

Your face starts to color again. You blush easily, don’t you? “Something that will help strengthen mental barriers,” you mumble. “Something wearable, like a necklace or a ring or something. The less obtrusive the better.”

I allow my brows to raise only slightly, but I am deeply intrigued. Such an item would only be useful against a witch or wizard who was actively practicing Legilimency against you, and few are skilled in that particular branch of magic. I have personally only ever come across two wizards who are skilled in such an art.

Besides myself, of course.

Who is trying to get in your head? And why?

But I only nod. “Of course,” I say, ever the obedient shop boy. I place the fang I was holding in its place—one that once belonged to an Acromantula, cleaned of all its precious venom, and therefore reducing it to little more than a trinket. “I see why you came to us. Such items are rare, true, but more importantly, the acquisition of such things tends to raise concerns… but here at Burgin and Borke’s, we respect our client’s privacy. We don’t ask intrusive questions.”

I motion for you to follow me. “This way,” I say, and you quickly fall into step at my side. I take you to the back of the store, where we keep all our charmed, cursed, or otherwise enchanted jewelry that is safe enough for display in an equally enchanted glass case. I step behind the counter and lead you down to where we have what you are looking for.

“We have a few options, depending on your needs,” I say.

“I-it’s not for me,” you splutter. “It’s for a friend.”

I don’t even need to look into your eyes to know that’s a lie.

You swallow hard, and I imagine that sounded unbelievable even to you. I’m not surprised though. I have played this game many times—selling a questionable item to someone who swears that they are here to purchase it for someone else. Rarely, they are telling the truth, as they are merely some lackey for someone else who pulls the strings in their lives. Mostly, they are liars.

Like you. 

“I see,” I say. “Of course not.”

I don’t mean to say it condescendingly, but perhaps there is a note of disdain in my voice anyway. You let out a long breath like you’ve been holding this confession in for a long time. “All right, it is for me,” you say. “But it’s not for some dodgy reason, I swear. I…”

You look around the shop. I assume you are looking for the wizard you bumped into earlier, to see if he might be listening. ‘Joe’ is still here, but he is on the other side of the store, looking at the fangs I was just organizing. You turn around to face me again, and when you speak next it is in a much lower voice.

“I just started training to be an auror,” you say.

An auror. Here, in my shop. _Interesting_. Also, in most cases, _unwelcome_. I allow my apprehension to show on my face. “Are you now?” I say. The iciness in my tone is carefully done. Still polite, but with an edge. My smile is as pleasant as it is cold.

“It’s not like that,” you say quickly. “I don’t care… I don’t…”

You pause, struggling with how to best move forward. Will you be bold enough to so much as insinuate that we are doing anything illegal here? That this shop is dark and unethical? If you do, I may have to force you to leave, and that would be very disappointing to me. Surely you know better than to do that.

To my pleasant surprise, you wisely drop that train of thought. You run your hand through your hair again, flattening it down over your forehead like you’re trying to hide your face as much as possible. “I just need what I need and I’ll be on my way,” you murmur.

I break with my own conduct, too curious not to inquire further. “Why would an auror-in-training need such an item?” I ask. “If I am not mistaken, Occlumency is a standard part of the training procedure. These objects will not offer nearly as much protection as being independently proficient in the mind arts will.”

Your face goes so red that I am reminded of another flash of magic. _Expelliarmus_. It makes the green of your eyes look even brighter still. “It is,” you mumble. “We are being trained in it now, in fact… and, well…. It’s giving me a lot of trouble.” You scoff at yourself. “A lot of trouble,” you add on, grumbling.

“Ah,” I say, then ask no more. I now how such Ministry approved training goes, especially for the more difficult to attain positions. You’re afraid you’re going to get kicked out of the program.

You’re looking to _cheat_. Internally, I am grinning to myself. Either you are in denial about what you are doing, or we have very different definitions of the word _dodgy_.

“I only plan on wearing it for a little while,” you say as though you have heard my thoughts—but, well, we both know that can’t be true. “Just until I can get up to speed on Occlumency on my own. I’m passing with flying colors in every other aspect of our training. It’s just… this mind art nonsense, I’m bloody terrible at it. I don’t understand why.”

“It is a very obscure branch of magic,” I say reassuringly. “I imagine most people would struggle with it. If they would even attempt to learn such complicated spell work, that it. Few ever even consider it, as it is so difficult and convoluted.”

I let the iciness in my smile and tone melt away, and the tenseness in your posture lessens. “Yeah… yeah. You’re right. Thanks. So… Which of these do you recommend?”

I consider this for a moment. The rings are by far the most powerful. And yet, I am now personally invested. I am a Legilimens. I like to be able to see the truth in one’s eyes easily; if I sell you the best of what we have to offer, I am giving you some fraction of protection against _me_. Not that I don’t think I could work past a mental strengthening enchantment, but you might notice if I do. And what good is being able to see deceit if you know?

There is no quicker way to scare someone away than to reveal that you can read their thoughts.

“For you, I would recommend this necklace here,” I say. I pull the silver chain from the case “It is nondescript and long enough that you could easily hide it beneath your robes. No one would notice it, unlike a ring, which is visible at all times. You simply have to make sure it is in contact with your skin to be effective.”

You seem to think this over for a moment, then nod. “All right,” you say. You are so trusting of my commendation that you don’t even ask about the others. That’s a problem. Don’t you know that you should always research all your available options before making a decision? “I’ll take it.”

“Very well.”

I take the necklace to where we keep our cash box, an ancient thing we store behind the counter that may be one of the darkest objects in this shop. It is cursed in a way that, should anyone who has not previously smeared the surface with their blood onto it while saying the correct enchantment, it will burn white-hot if touched. And if someone should be stupid enough to use any kind of magic on it at all, well… let’s just say that Mr. Burke has come into his shop in the morning on more than one occasion, finding upon entering a paralyzed body with blackened, wrinkled skin behind his counter. He says he left the corpses in nearby alleys until the bolder residents of Knockturn Alley got the hint. Information that he would surely not divulge in anyone else, but what can I say? People trust me. 

But I have, of course, performed the necessary blood ritual (the most fascinating part of my training here, no doubt), and so the box moves easily for me. You stare at it disdainfully, like you can sense the dark magic radiating off it. You probably can, young auror-in-training.

“I must warn you,” I say. “These objects are expensive. This necklace alone costs 17 galleons.”

“That’s fine,” you say, then reach into your mokeskin bag. You pull out another leather pouch heavy with coins, and after counting out seventeen galleons, you slide them across the table.

Well. That answers the question of whether you are wealthy or not. You just don’t flaunt it. You’re not like the Malfoys or the Lestranges, are you?

“Thank you,” I say, taking the coins and depositing them neatly into the cursed box. I wrap the chain neatly in a silky white cloth, then hand it to you. “The cloth is charmed as well. It will make the silver gleam if you are so inclined as to polish it.”

“Thanks,” you say. You take your purchase and stash it in your mokeskin bag, where only you will be able to retrieve it later. “Er… I’m Harry, by the way.” You stick your arm out over the counter, offering me your hand. “Harry Potter.”

Ah.

Potter. That is a name I know, but not a family line that I have delved into extensively. Pureblooded, but not so rare and so diligently recorded in wizarding history to be considered one of the Sacred 28. This explains why you don’t look that familiar to me. I imagine we attended Hogwarts at the same time, but you were certainly not in Slytherin. I would peg you for a Gryffindor, then. Purchasing a cursed object to cheat your way through Auror training was a very Slytherin thing to do, but having the gall to come here in the first place and touch the wares screams Gryffindor louder than the sorting hat ever could.

Potter… No, I’ve never bothered to invest in that name before… but I will now.

“A pleasure,” I say. “I’m Tom Riddle.”

“Oh!” Your eyes go wide as though in recognition. “You were Head Boy when I was a fifth-year. I thought you looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where or how.”

A _lie._

A decent one, and if I was judging by your tone and expression alone, rather believable. But I can see it clearly in those bright eyes. You knew who I was the moment you saw me, didn’t you? You just pretended not to. Is that why you were so awkward? I can understand that. I may not have had time to notice Gryffindors years below me, but you almost certainly knew all about me.

Top grades, Prefect, Head Boy. And there are other parts of my legacy that live on, but I am confident that those will remain confined in Slytherin House.

But you… you probably only remember me as the perfect student that Gryffindor loved to hate. The one that was bound to go on to do great, great things… so what am I doing here, working as a mere shop boy in Knockturn Alley? I can tell you want to ask, but you’re not so tactless.

“I was the Head Boy, yes,” I say. “Three years ago now. It seems like it was only yesterday.”

You smirk, and it is this smile—one that is crooked, one that is accompanied by a glint in your eyes—that causes a memory to spring to life in my mind.

I _do_ remember you.

“Your friend. The bushy-haired girl,” I say. “She became a prefect when I was Head Boy…”

I can tell you are recalling it then just as I am. The beginning of your fifth year, my seventh.

That moment on the train.

“Yeah,” you say. “Hermione. She went on to be Head Girl, you know.”

I grimace. “I am not surprised,” I say—though I am disappointed.

You laugh, but it’s a forced sound. “Right… well. Anyway…”

You take a step back awkwardly, once more running your fingers through your hair, flattening it over your forehead. Why do you keep doing that? It must be a nervous tick of yours. 

“It was good seeing you again, Riddle,” you say.

I let the grimace slip from my face, replaced by a more genuine smile. “And you, Potter… And should you find yourself needing to acquire any other questionable objects to cheat your way through your training… you know where to find us.”

I wink before I can stop myself. “Quite a Slytherin move for a Gryffindor.”

Your face once more burns red. It’s actually rather endearing. “I—I’m not…”

But whatever it is you are not, you are incapable of saying. “Good evening,” you snap suddenly, and you turn and leave, all but slamming the door behind you as you go.

I’m not sure if I should be offended or if I should laugh. 

"A baby auror, huh?” leers a raspy voice in the corner. “Now _that_ is interesting.”

I scowl. “Joe, either buy something or get out,” I say wearily. I’ve dealt with him long enough that I know he only responds to directness.

And sometimes, not even that. “I’m _perusing_ ,” he says. “Am I not a valued customer? Am I not allowed to take my time as I look through your many fascinating wares?”

I hold back a sigh. Of course he is right; ‘Joe’ has been buying from and selling for this shop for ages, dealing with the sort of folk who respond better to a hag in tatters in shady alleyways than to handsome, tall shop boys with dazzling smiles. He’s useful, if also an annoyance, so I have to accommodate him.

It’s all a part of the façade.

“We close at nine,” I say, ignoring his question. And though I cannot see his face beneath his hood, I know he is smiling triumphantly.

Someday, I will crush rats like these for even thinking to defy me.

Someday, I will rule the world with the might of my magic and the powerful backing of my many, loyal followers.

But will I need to destroy you, young auror-in-training? Boy with the enticing green eyes who is in the process of becoming, officially, the sort of wizard whose job it will be to defy me?

Will I need to crush you, Harry?


	2. Radiant

The Potter family has a convoluted history that is, in fact, tied to many of the Sacred 28. You have close relations, either by blood or by marriage, to the Blacks, the Flints, the Bulstrodes, and the Weasleys, and more distantly to the Prewetts. You even have ties to some of the wealthier pureblood families, the Malfoys and the Yaxleys. Lucky you.

I swallow back the envy as I trace the lines of your expansive, undeniable family history, published in books on wizarding heritage that date all the way back to the 10th century in some texts. But when one looks upon the elegantly written name of Salazar Slytherin, his bloodline supposedly ends just three generations later. Some historians have suggested that his family was cursed, or at least rumored to be; that none of the females related to Salazar Slytherin ever produced living children and so the bloodline inevitably died out.

I clench my teeth and redirect my focus, closing one of the many books that I have already invested far too much of my precious time, finding nothing but dead ends and lies. This misguided belief will be rectified. One day the world will know my name, my _true_ name… and they will see _exactly_ how alive the noble bloodline of Salazar Slytherin is.

All in good time.

You, however, have never had such qualms about your name and heritage. Your Father, James Potter, is a Pureblood, and he works in the Department of Magical Games and Sports at the Ministry. He played Quidditch at Hogwarts as a Chaser, and now that I think of it, I am sure you played too. You were the Seeker for your house. You were good. You constantly outdid our team’s Seeker, and if memory serves you never lost a match. But on this account, I might be mistaken. I had little time nor energy nor _desire_ to spare for the frivolity of Quidditch. But you did, and so this begs further questions. Why would someone who was so inclined to play games on broomsticks and whose father already had connections in that department want to go on to become an auror of all things? That’s hardly a _fun_ career path.

Interesting.

James Potter graduated with a respectable number of O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, but nothing to write home about. More impressive is that he was Head Boy in his seventh year, and like something out of a cliché romance novel, he went on to marry the Head Girl. A muggle-born woman, Lily Evans. Your Mother. They were wed three years after their graduation.

You, like me, are a half-blood.

Of her, there is much less to discover. Lily Evans was born of two muggles in Cokeworth, England. She had one sister, Petunia Evans, another muggle. I wonder for a moment who introduced your mother to the magical world. Did Dumbledore appear to her as well, informing her that she was a witch before warning her not to misuse her magic and lighting her wardrobe on fire? I’ve never asked such questions to anyone else who grew up unaware of what they were, but I am curious. Were all ignorant children shown such displays of impressive violence, or was I special?

I like to think the latter.

Lily Evans, who was in same house as your father—Gryffindor, of _course_ —graduated with excellent marks, receiving an impressive 10 N.E.W.T.s She began training as a Healer, but there are no records of her having ever completed this training. Her history, as far as researchable publications, ends there.

I turn my attention to more recent documents. You, Harry, have a surprising academic record as well. Then again, you would have to, wouldn’t you? In order to go on to be accepted into the auror program. There is a picture of you and several other wizards and witches your age in an old newspaper I’ve found, archived from last year. I vaguely recognize the boy at your side—a red-headed young man who is obviously a Weasley. He grins widely with his arm around you, looking like he can’t believe he made it into the ranks of future-aurors. You, however, smile more bashfully. You do that thing where you try to flatten your hair again for the picture. It defies you, standing more upright than before.

That smile. My gaze lingers on it for some time, noting the way you have not two dimples, but one. On your left side. Only on your left side.

You received 6 N.E.W.T.s in all the recommended subjects to apply as an Auror, as well as in Muggle Studies. I frown at that. _Muggle Studies_. What an absolute waste of time. Why would you, someone who wanted to pursue the craft of catching and imprisoning dark witches and wizards, take muggle studies? As someone whose mother grew up in the muggle world and who therefore must have muggle relatives, one would think you were quite versed in their lifestyle. It’s a conundrum and I file it away for further investigation.

You are in your first year of the training program, of that I am aware. If your words are to be trusted, you are passing with flying colors in every part of the training except Occlumency. That necklace I sold you will help, but its effects will only go so far. Still, I have little doubt that you won’t make it through the training process. Your father works at the Ministry; you have a name and support and really, doing badly in one aspect of a job that requires more nerve than mental stamina will hardly hold you up. It’s not like there are many witches and wizards who practice enough to be skilled in Legilimency anyway, aside from those precious few who are born with a natural aptitude.

It is in one of the fairly recent newspapers that I find some more relevant information. There is a small article, not headline news but not terribly buried either, that catches my eye. I hold up the old _Daily Prophet_ and read the bolded title, ‘Trespasser to Hogwarts Caught’ with the sub-title, ‘New Auror Trainees Promising a Bright Future’ – Rita Skeeter reports.

It is a short article with no picture. I read on.

_‘Alexander Travers was caught attempting to break into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The 45-year old wizard is a known criminal, having been arrested six times previously for various charges such as breaking and entering and petty theft. Recently released from Azkaban for his second incarceration there, Travers has now attempted to break into Hogwarts.’_

I pause. Alexander Travers. I know this man. He frequents Knockturn Alley, one of the many hooded figures that shuffle along the shadowy streets like a well-placed, shabby adornment. He is a known—and disowned—squib.

I frown as I consider this story. Travers is a mentally unhinged man, but he is the sort of deranged that is chilling. He is also not _completely_ unmagical; I have witnessed him on more than one occasion accidentally cause sparks and blasts of wind when alarmed. A fractured mind with fractured magical capabilities who usually, at most, would try and steal food from stands or coins from the pockets of passersby.

So what caused him to try and break into _Hogwarts_? Arguably the most difficult place to infiltrate in the country, if not the world…

_“We got the alert right away when the wards were disturbed. Naturally, Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster, was also alerted, but as he was traveling over the summer, we were first on the scene. We caught Travers quite quickly, thanks to the fast and tenacious thinking of two or our newest recruits. Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley knew of a secret tunnel onto the grounds that allowed us to head him off without him being any the wiser. He never made it near the gates.”_

_Successfully captured once more, Alexander Travers is scheduled for trial on September 3 rd. _

_Ever the inquisitive reporter, I see a much more interesting story beneath the surface news of yet another criminal being incarcerated. When asked just how these young men knew of a secret tunnel onto the school grounds, the soon-to-be aurors had no comment. And while one can hardly reprimand them for information that led to the swift snatching of a would-be thief, it certainly does spark some intrigue. One thing is for certain – the future of Defense at the Ministry of Magic is looking promising indeed… Dark Witches and Wizards beware!’_

I fold the paper and put it back in its place, neatly filed away in the public library’s archives. August 26th, 1998. I berate myself for not having read that issue more thoroughly when I came out, but then again, I have been keeping rather busy these past few months. Still. That is no excuse to cease being ever vigilant, and this is a sobering reminder.

I quietly ponder the possibilities as I sit in the library… and though the mystery of Travers attempting to break into Hogwarts and how you knew how to catch him are intriguing thoughts, I find myself thinking instead of your smile. One dimple. Left side only. I retrieve that issue of the _Prophet_ and stare, watching you fail again and again to flatten your hair.

I carefully extract the picture from that article, cutting it cleanly from the page—I am not one for duplicates; I want the real thing—and tuck it into my pocket before I file the old papers away again. By the time I am leaving the library minutes later, smiling charmingly at the librarians who all know me by name and wave to me as I go, I am already planning. I am already preparing.

You don’t know it yet, but you are already mine.

* * *

It isn’t difficult to come up with reasons to be at the Ministry of Magic. One follower of mine or another is always _popping in_ , and it’s simple enough to seemingly be a tag-a-long to any of them. One suggestive sentence about how something or other that’s happened in legislation lately is a disgrace to our Wizarding Traditions is all that’s needed to cause them to frown and agree; to insist that he or his father go in and say something to someone who happens to be important enough and who they happen to know well.

My dear Knights, always so very ready to flaunt their connections and please their Lord. I must admit, the willingness has been useful, and it has grown more so as they have matured. They are the pureblooded men of the Wizarding World, and they are the future.

My future.

It is by employing this simple tactic that I find myself in the Ministry of Magic’s atrium. It has been two and half weeks since our interaction at Borgin and Burke’s, though I have been around the Ministry many times since then. I have come almost every day, disillusioned or otherwise disguised, watching, waiting. Learning.

On most weekdays, you leave around the same time as the majority of the people here, scuttling out of the Ministry around 5 pm. Yet you usually linger in the atrium with that Weasley boy—Ronald, it must be, your friend who also knows of secret Hogwarts tunnels—and you wait.

(You wave at your father when he catches your eye on his way out, and the first time I saw him I was mildly astounded. He looks so much like you it is uncanny. He is a slightly taller, less gravitational figure than you. His eyes are dull compared to yours, and he does not carry himself with the same… something that you do. I cannot think of a word for it. Something bright and alluring that your father, sadly, lacks)

The first time I witnessed this ritual of stalling in the atrium, it confused me. You seemed to be waiting for something that did not happen before you and Weasley, seemingly disappointed, left together. You took the floo one after another.

You never say out loud where it is you are going, and at first this also surprised me. But then I realized that performing wordless incantations constantly is undoubtedly a part of your auror training. I scowled at the realization because it makes perfect sense. Aurors should be experts in worldess magic; speed is everything in combat.

It’s smart. And infuriating.

Not knowing where that fire is taking you is beyond maddening. I itch to follow you every time; to bewitch the floo network to engulf me in emerald flames that would take me to its last location, to where you had gone… but that would be beyond foolish. This is the Ministry of Magic, and such a bewitchment would set off more alarms than Travers when he stupidly tried to break into the castle. In the very belly of the beast, no less. That would be the bold and reckless move of a Gryffindor, and I am far from that. True to my lineage, I am the cunning, clever type.

I am patient.

It was on the fourth day of this strange lingering that it became clear what you were doing. You and Ronald Weasley were waiting for a third party. Someone familiar.

Hermione Granger.

The Gryffindor girl, the prefect I helped trained when I was Head Boy—though Demeter Rosier, Head Girl, had a much larger hand in that. Still, I remember her well enough. Bushy hair. Crisp uniform. Always early to meetings and with a striking hypocrisy when it came to rules. She was extremely respectful with the outlined chain of authority and following protocol until, quite suddenly, she _wasn’t_.

Hermione Granger works both in the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures _and_ in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, interning under some of the more impressive figures in both branches. It is no wonder, then, that she often remains at the Ministry late, working well past the golden hour of five ‘o clock. When she does manage to get away at a reasonable time, though, the three of you leave as a group—you and Weasley smiling; Granger often huffing and immediately launching into some long-winded, work-related drama.

Seeing you three together irks me. I know little of the Weasley boy, but Granger is a concern. She is a muggle-born and a _problem_. She may be intelligent, I will give her that, but is this really the sort of person you want to associate yourself with? You should choose your friends more wisely. Then again, I suppose you must have a soft spot for muggle-borns, what with your mother being one… or do you? She is still an unknown entity to me. I wonder what your relationship is like.

Another mystery for another day.

After several weeks of monitoring your schedule, I feel confident in my ploy. Today, my world will collide with yours, and it will seem as though the strings of fate have orchestrated the entire affair… not me.

“It is a bit maddening, isn’t it?”

Edison Rowle walks at my side, his face twisted in a grimace. “That we have to address these things ourselves. Honestly, you would think that there are at least some capable wizards working in Law Enforcement. This place is going to the dogs.”

“That is a bit harsh, Edison,” I say. My voice is calming and low, in great contrast to his overt bitterness. “I would venture to say that they are simply blinded by sympathy.”

“Sympathy!” he barks. We turn a corner, heading towards the atrium. It is quite crowded now. At ten minutes to five, the day is nearly done—and as it’s a Friday, many of our dutiful government workers are leaving early. I smirk. You’re guilty of this as well. “Blinded by sympathy! It’s preposterous. Horrific.”

He looks at me, his gray-blue eyes shining with admiration. “It’s a good thing they have people like you and me, setting things right,” he says.

I nod. “Agreed,” I say softly. 

We are making our way from the offices of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We have just had a lovely meeting with Argus Greengrass, one of the wizards involved in the trial against Alexander Travers. As it turned out, Travers was only sentenced to another month of time in Azkaban. I made my views clear that I found that sentence much too mild; Edison, wholeheartedly, agreed with me. 

For today’s excursion, I have chosen my connection to the Ministry well. Edison Rowle is as entitled as they come. He is also the perfect follower—loyal, wealthy, eager. And like all those who are fortunate enough to have been born into the Sacred 28, his connections to the most important of wizarding families are limitless.

They are all intertwined, the Purebloods.

Edison is the second cousin of Alexander Travers. This makes him the perfect person to use; he is close enough to the incident to want nothing more than to watch this abomination of a squib be locked away for life, yet not so close as to deny his relation to the man at all. Regis Travers, the squib’s nephew and another of my faithful Knights, refuses to so much as acknowledge that the man exists. In Regis’s eyes, his Uncle is dead.

An admirable way to trim the diseased branches of a family tree, no doubt, but hardly useful for my purposes today. Edison was the correct choice. As soon as I mentioned the situation he was up in arms, raving about the flaws of our judicial system… and two days later we are here, our appointment with a member of the Wizengamot made rather quickly and having gone, I believe, very well.

“It better get turned around,” Edison mutters again. “That sick squib should never see the light of day again, as far as I’m concerned.”

I say nothing to this, only nod. I am scanning the crowds, looking down the corridor where I know the Auror Department to be. Have we missed you? Or are you still on your way?

You and Weasley will be leaving on schedule today, but Granger, I know, will not. I suggested we speak to Argus Greengrass specifically for more than one reason. Yes, he is on the Wizengamot. Yes, he was on Travers’s trial but was outvoted, one of a few who wanted a longer prison sentence. But more importantly, he is the man that Hermione Granger currently interns under. Considering how our meeting just went, I have no doubt that Miss Granger will be dealing with a great mound of paperwork, all aimed at reopening his case for reevaluation. 

And you will be waiting.

As we enter into the Ministry’s atrium, I see you. Standing with Weasley, his red hair a bright beacon that is hard to miss. Still, it is your face that stills me. Weasley is saying something to you and you are smiling.

One dimple. Left side.

“I could use a firewhiskey after all that,” Edison drawls. Also quite predictable behavior for him—Edison is a borderline alcoholic. “Shall we go to my manor and toast to our success?”

“It might be premature to call it a success,” I say. We are moving towards you. You are still smiling and you haven’t noticed us yet.

“It will be a success,” Edison says adamantly. “I’ll see to it that it is.”

Your head is turning toward us and we are about to walk by you and I turn away, looking to Edison. “Well,” I say, raising my voice just so. “Alexander Travers’ case _will_ be reexamined, and I suppose that is a small success in and of itself.”

“Er-excuse me?”

Edison and I both pause. I allow myself the slightest, triumphant smile before I turn at the sound of someone calling out to us. It was Weasley who spoke. I fix him with a mildly curious look.

“Did you just say something about Alexander Travis?”

“Perhaps,” Edison says before I can speak. His voice is cold but not impolite—he recognizes Ronald as a Weasley as much as anyone does, and is familiar with the tenuous relation. A Pureblood but a known muggle lover. A traitorous family by some standards, but a Sacred bloodline nonetheless. “What’s it to you?”

Edison is looking at Weasley and Weasley is looking at me but my eyes stray to you. You look surprised to see me in these surroundings—me, the shop boy from Knockturn Alley, the wizard who sold you that cheating necklace that you’re currently wearing (the silver chain is peeking out at the base of your neck and it’s quite bright and did you polish it with that enchanted cloth I gave you?), running into you here. At the Ministry of Magic.

Weasley stiffens and stands taller. “It’s a lot to me, seeing as I’m the one who caught him,” he says proudly.

Edison does look shocked by this. “Were you now?”

“Damn right I was. Well, me and Harry, here. Actually, Harry did more than I did on that account. But still. We got ‘em together.”

He pats you hard on the shoulder in a brotherly fashion. You lower your head a little sheepishly and look away from me.

“Well. Good work then,” Edison says stiffly. He turns to leave, but Weasley speaks then to me. “You were just saying something about his trial?”

“Yes,” I answer. Edison returns, a little reluctantly, to what is turning into a full-blown conversation. “Edison and I just had a meeting with one of the members of the Wizengamot, discussing the nature of his trial and the ruling. He was due to be released next week, but we feel that such a short sentence is unjust. Attempting to break onto Hogwarts grounds is surely a grievous crime.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not like he got very far,” Weasley says.

“He really didn’t,” you agree. “And even if we hadn’t caught him as quickly as he did, it’s not like he would have made it beyond the gates… I’m actually impressed he made it to the grounds, to be honest… er, hello, Riddle.”

You add the greeting on awkwardly, adding a small wave as though I were across the hall, not right in front of you. I smile. “Hello, Potter,” I say.

 _Potter_. I don’t like the feel of your surname in my mouth; I have already begun to think of you as Harry in my mind and someday, I will call you that. You will ask me to and I will say it with a lilting smile and you will blush despite yourself because names have power, Harry. I will teach you that. 

“It’s good to see you again… in full uniform, this time.”

I nod towards his deep navy robes, the standard dress for aurors in training. But your gaze follows mine and I know that you know that I am looking at your neck; that I am seeing the chain there and am fully aware of _exactly_ what kind of uniform you wear. You flush slightly and your hand goes to the back of your neck. You tug your collar up a little, hiding that slip of silver. “Good to see you too,” you say.

“You two know each other?” Edison asks. His expression is wary, conflicted. On one hand, he wants to let Potter and Weasley know they are not of the right caliber to associate with me. On the other hand, he is aware that if I have chosen to associate with anyone at all that I have my reasons, and he is to be unquestioning and supportive of all my decisions.

“Hardly,” I say. Your eyes are burning into mine—am I going to rat you out? To say out loud that you came to Borgin and Burke’s? A rather questionable act for an auror hopeful. “Potter and I happened to run into each other at the public library not long ago. We were both doing some research on the Mind Arts. It was nice to chat with someone with similar interests.”

Weasley’s eyes go very wide at that, staring at you like he’s not sure he’s ever seen you properly before. “ _You_ were studying? At the _library_?”

You, flushing, nod. “Yeah,” you say, content to carry on with my lie. “Just trying to get better at Legilimency, you know?”

Weasley frowns, and although he is shaking his head, he believes you. “Blimey, Harry. Hermione must really be rubbing off on you. Guess it must’ve worked though, you’ve been getting loads better!”

He claps your shoulder again. You avoid my gaze and I don’t blame you because I am smirking. Only you and I know exactly why you have made such a marked improvement in the Mind Arts, and studying was not a factor.

“Speaking of Hermione, where is she? It’s after five now. It’s Friday! I want to get out of her and grab a drink already. This week has been hell.”

Edison’s expression becomes a little less hostile at that remark. “Not the greatest week for our future criminal snatchers?” he says. _Snatchers_. I like that. Witches and wizards not simply hunting but _snatching_ , bringing the vermin back so that they can be dealt with accordingly.

Of course, your definition of vermin is undoubtedly very different from mine… but will it always be?

“Hell no,” Weasley says. “We’ve been bouncing back and forth between combat training and mental magic all week. Yesterday I got all the hair on my face burned off by an incendiary hex; today my brain feels like someone beat it with a hammer.”

“I thought you looked good without eyebrows,” you say, smiling devilishly.

One dimple. Left side.

“Har har,” Weasley says drily. He checks his watch again, frowning. “I guess ‘Mione is working late… poor lass. Shall we?”

You look up at me with the question there, right on the tip of your tongue, ready to spill out, but you won’t say it. You’re too nervous to ask.

“You were just saying that you required a drink yourself, Edison,” I say smoothly. “What do you think of skipping your manor this evening and going out into the real world for a change? It might be interesting to hear more about this hellacious auror training. And I’d love to further our previous conversation, Potter… If you would both be willing to oblige us, of course.”

“And _I_ would love to hear more about this thing against Travers that you’ve been getting involved in,” Weasley says, looking pointedly at Edison. “You say you’re trying to extend his sentence?”

“Indeed,” Edison says loftily. He looks at me, and he knows it's already been decided. “I suppose I could repay the two wizards responsible for his capture by buying a round.”

Weasley brightens up exceptionally at that offer. “You’re on,” he says, grinning.

He bounds off, leading us towards the many fireplaces that are lighting up in green all down the hall as Ministry workers leave for a much-needed weekend. You follow him first and Edison falls into step next to me. I can tell by the side-long glance he is giving me that he wants to ask why we are going to grab drinks with a Potter and a Weasley, but I offer him nothing. They don’t pry, my followers, and I reward them for their unwavering faith.

As we walk, I catch your father’s eye from across the atrium. You wave at him and he waves back, a half-smile on his face, but then he sees me. Interesting. We have never interacted, not once, but his brows knit together and he grimaces, like the sight of me walking near his son is an unwelcome one. Or is it just the sight of me?

I don’t understand. I wonder why. Regardless, I am glad he is on the other end of the atrium, a sea of congregating witches and wizards separating us.

“Madame Marjorie’s all right with you lot?” Weasley asks, grabbing a handful of sand. I look to Edison, allowing him to make this unimportant call. Where we go matters little to me. He nods stiffly. “All right then. See you on the other side!”

Weasley tosses in the powder, says nothing, and steps into a wall of green flames. Edison looks unwillingly impressed by the wordless magic, but he does not do so himself. “Madame Marjorie’s!” he says, then vanishes in fire.

That leaves us. I smile, giving you a slanted grin as I grab a handful of powder. “Been getting loads better, hm?”

You blush, but you also glare. It is a hostile expression marred by embarrassment. It is almost endearing. “You can’t—”

“Please, Potter. I uphold a very professional and strict code of buyer confidentiality. Your secret is safe with me.”

I wink. Your blush gets brighter—

( _radiant_ ; that is the word that was escaping me earlier. For all the similarities you share with your father he is lackluster in comparison, dreary and overcast as though a dark cloud has settled over him and refuses to leave. You, however, are like a glowing sun; you are _radiant_ )

—and I toss in the powder, causing green, harmless flames to lick at my wrists.

“See you on the other side,” I murmur, and without another word, I step into the fire. 


End file.
